Not without a fight
by malintzin
Summary: With threats, bribes and calling in favors, yes, I stopped it. Remember when Mary alluded to Richard's harsh world, and compared journalists to detectives? Here's the world she thought she knew, or in another words, when Mary decides to take a break from her suitors' attentions on Valentine's Day, she finally meets the people who helped to hush the Crawleys' scandals. PUTP 'verse
1. Chapter 1

_With threats, bribes and calling in favours, yes, I stopped it. _

Remember when Mary alluded to Richard's harsh world, and compared journalists to detectives? Here's the world she thought she knew, or in another words, when Mary decides to take a break from her suitors' attentions on Valentine's Day, she finally meets the people who helped to hush the Pamuk scandal and the Bates scandal.

Set in Picking up the pieces 'verse, a few months after chapter 3.

Co-written with Mrs Tater of course. Expect two updates, in a very close future.

_February 14, 1923_

_I'm not going to give up on you without a fight_.

When Charles Blake uttered those words to her at the Downton Bazaar, Mary had been more flattered than she'd let on, to him or to herself. Tony's kiss the previous spring had awakened her to the alarming idea that she wanted to know a man's love again, someday, and now that Charles had declared himself, too, she felt more a girl than she had since the war, the _débutante _who seldom captivated the interest of only one man at any one time.

On Valentine's Day, she descended Aunt Rosamund's marble staircase in much better spirits than she had the previous year. Though when she eyed the two towering arrangements which had just been delivered from rival London florists, and was assaulted by the heavy, competing odors of gladiolus and orchids, her nose tickling with the start of a sneeze, it occurred to her that much as she enjoyed male company, she just wasn't that girl anymore.

Not that she ever had been much for flowers, thanks to her hayfever.

Turning her back to them, she strode to the telephone table, picked up the receiver and asked the operator to put her through to Richard Carlisle's Fleet Street office.

"Hello, Miss Fields," she greeted the secretary when her familiar voice crackled in her ear. "Lady Mary Crawley calling."

"One moment, your ladyship," replied Miss Fields.

Mary smiled to herself behind the microphone that there was no hesitation; her telephone calls and letters had become as commonplace in Richard's offices these past several months as Charles' and Tony's had at Downton. The smile faltered when she considered that this had not been the case during their engagement, only to return at Richard's rasp over the line, asking to what he owed the pleasure.

"It's Valentine's Day," she replied, "and I was hoping you'd have a better offer for me than a matinee of _Romeo and Juliet _followed by tea at the Ritz, or _You'd Be Surprised_ followed by dinner and dancing at the Criterion. And by _better _I of course mean something much less romantic." Her nostrils prickled again with the perfume of the orchids, and she stifled a sneeze. "And allergic."

In his office, Richard tried to ignore the disapproval in the green eyes that had narrowed at him across his desk the instant he said, _Hello, Mary._

_No more Crawley drama, right?_

That was what Keith had asked last year when their paths crossed Lady Edith's one night on Fleet Street. Back then, Richard's right hand man had not approved of the potential ramifications of this unexpected encounter, and the return of Lady Mary in Richard's life, albeit in a rather distant role, even less.

"Let me guess," Richard spoke pleasantly into the phone. As much as he understood Keith's silent message that they had more important things to do, a little frivolous chat about the desire of suitors following his ex-fiancée couldn't hurt. "Lord Gillingham invited you to the first one, and Mr. Blake to the second."

To be honest, he needed some respite from the constant worry that had been their companion since Keith heard a disturbing rumor about their star caricaturist's lady friend parading on the arm of a jazz singer who, obviously, was not Pete Inzaghi. In moments like these, the American's penchant for the bottle turned into full blown self-destruction. The man vanished into thin air, causing havoc among his friends who searched for him in the seediest places in London for days and even once for weeks.

Richard considered his disheveled right hand, his tousled silver hair, the day-growth of stubble on his cheeks, the sad and almost fatalist frown.

Pete had really a talent for making them crazy with worry.

"Just a minute," he mouthed to his interlocutor and reached for a pen and paper to continue their brainstorming while hearing Mary's plea.

_How about Old Chan's opium joint? _he scribbled, and passed the note to Keith.

"Yes, they are rather predictable, aren't they?" Mary replied on the other end of the line.

She'd been keeping him apprised of her suitors' more amusing exploits since last summer, in letters, during phone calls, on the occasions when they were in town at the same time and brought their sons together to play. Perhaps predictability was why she hadn't chosen Charles or Tony over the other. Or why she hadn't sent either one packing. Not that either would be sent. They were persistent chaps.

"Can you guess who sent the orchids and who sent the gladiolus?" she asked.

Richard knew there was a hidden message to these flowers offerings, and he knew he should have known it.

_Which one? The old one on the docks? Or the new fancy one behind Bekesbourne St? _Keith replied in his usual, tiny, indecipherable writing. Sometimes, when Richard had to read his friend's reports and remarks, he felt like a new incarnation of Champollion, deciphering hieroglyphs, not that he ever voiced this opinion.

He narrowed his eyes, as much to decipher as to think about the supposed difference between orchids and gladiolus.

"You'll have to help me here. Honestly, I only buy flowers because I find them pretty or because I feel they will complement the person I offer them to, or the vase which said person is going to put them into."

Admitting his ignorance to his ex-fiancé about flowers - and, at the same time, discretely asking forgiveness for any misstep he may have committed in the past in that regard - was far easier than recognizing he badly needed a little trip to his ophthalmologist, Richard concluded as he straightened in his chair and stretched out his arm, a gesture which did not escape Keith's attention, sadly.

Once again Mary smirked. She'd long suspected Richard knew nothing about the traditional meanings of flowers, given the seeming randomness or downright inappropriateness of the few floral offerings he'd made her during their engagement. She leaned back against the telephone table, eyeing the monstrosities that flanked the staircase. If only Charles or Tony possessed a little of that spontaneity, this war of flowers might actually have a victor."As it was, neither seemed capable of straying from the book.

"According to _The Language of Flowers_," she said, "orchids are given to speak of a lady's beauty and refinement. Gladiolus proclaim the sincerity of the person who gave the flowers."

"Hmmh… Lord Gillingham offered the orchids, a good choice, because they're beautiful flowers, and, by the way, you should definitely go to Glasgow once in your life to see the collection in the Botanical Garden," Richard commented as he wrote back to his other interlocutor.

_Probably the old one… found him there two years ago. Let's split up… I take Limehouse, you the docks?_

"And Mr. Blake offered the gladiolus, a rather martial choice for a direct man. If the few memories of Latin class don't fail me, I think that gladiolus comes from the word for sword, or something like that…"

Diplomatically, Richard did not voice his opinion about the irony of such a declaration, considering what was said in the Liberal circles about Mr. Blake's inheritance and his oh-so-convenient job in the administration.

"I'm sorry to inform you you've got it backwards," Mary said, laughing. "The glads are Tony's offering, and you ascribe a more masculine meaning to them than I."

To be honest, the declaration of his sincerity had only made her think what a puppy Tony could be at times, turning up at Downton unannounced and gazing at her with his heart in his dark eyes, scarcely able to contain his eagerness when she did show him preference.

"You sound distracted," she said, suddenly less interested in an analysis of her suitors than in the man she was discussing them with. "Am I interrupting something terribly important? I assumed since Miss Fields put me through-"

"Besides the fact that our local Yank decided to disappear the day before he had to produce two sketches, one comic strip and another two full pages for five out of seven papers? Nothing terribly important, as long as the police don't come and say they found him drowned in the Thames."

_OK. Meet late afternoon in park._

Keith was already on his feet when Richard motioned him back, waving the paper in the air.

_Bring muscle. Morty cleared schedule._

Richard's right hand was perfectly capable of handling himself, even on the docks, but, like the rest of the gang, he was not getting any younger, and his prime years as a brawler were long gone. The man knew it too, as he nodded, and walked out.

"Heavens," said Mary. "I hope he turns up before the deadline. Although from what you've told me about Mr. Inzaghi, this is sort of erratic behavior is par for the course?"

Edith had mentioned, too, that her brief impression of Richard's team had been that of all of them, the American had stood out as surprisingly unprofessional. Mr. Gregson assured her he was a genius at his work, or Richard wouldn't put up with him.

"Well, there's his usual erratic behavior which is simply unnerving, and there's his punctual self-destructive behavior, which is downright worrying. Right now, I don't give a fig about the deadline, to be honest."

Richard scanned his wallet for a healthy amount of cash, replacing the rest, along with personal photos - Shawsie, family, friends - and official papers. No need to bring all this only to get it stolen by some enterprising pickpocket he would inevitably fail to notice as the day went by.

"Listen, I don't want to rush you, but if your dear suitors are all you want to talk about, I'm afraid I'll have to hang up soon."

Mary's thumb twitched against the base of the telephone at his dismissiveness, but she exhaled long and relaxed. He was right to be brusque; her "troubles" with her over-eager gentlemen hardly seemed so at all, compared with the disappearance of a person who was obviously a great deal more to Richard than an employee. His letters the last several months had been enlightening, as well as entertaining, as he shared anecdotes from work which revealed a side of him he'd never showed her before-or which she'd never taken the time to look for. For a businessman who claimed not to suffer fools, Richard could be loyal almost to a fault-and she had been no exception for his devotion.

"Thank you for indulging me," she said. "I suppose you'll be off to look for him? Do you…" She hesitated before forging ahead with this idea which had come suddenly into her head with her reluctance to bring their conversation with him to an end. "Do you need any help?"

Richard's eyes widened in surprise. Eighteen months of marriage to Matthew Crawley had not deprived Mary of her ability to wrong-foot her interlocutors. This was a good thing.

Still, he pondered his answer carefully. The dark side of Limehouse District was not a suitable place for a lady at all. Not that it was really dangerous, excepting the pickpocket hazard. But the lifestyle was not exactly what a woman like Lady Mary Crawley would find acceptable. On the other hand, she was a widow and a mother, not a blushing virgin anymore, and some company would be nice to keep his own worry in check if the search dragged on.

Moreover, a woman who saved pigs from dehydration, covered for a potential murder and went to dissuade a black jazz singer from marrying her cousin in his own basement apartment possessed the tools to survive a day seedy clubs and opium joints…

"Why not? How much more unromantic can you get for Valentine's Day? Meet me on at the corner of Commercial Road and White Horse Road in an hour. And don't bring anything valuable."

* * *

Aunt Rosamund's chauffeur parked the Renault in front of a dilapidated store which displayed a Chinese name in faded letters. After he opened the door for her to disembark, he did not immediately climb back into the driver's seat, but stood watching until he saw that she reached Richard-who was only standing a few yards away, by a lamppost-without incident. Though she tried not to show it, Marywas grateful for the extra watchfulness, if ever so slightly alarmed by the driver's parting words. _Your ladyship is certain _this _is where you mean to go?_ She'd assured him she would be perfectly safe with Sir Richard, and please not to mention to Aunt Rosamund where she was spending Valentine's Day, or with whom.

"My," said Mary with a grin as she approached Richard, his trilby low over his forehead and the collar of his trenchcoat turned up against the February cold, wreathed in cigarette smoke. "I feel as though I've stepped onto the set of a detective film."

She glanced around, the grey sky and the shabby buildings with their peeling faded paint almost as drab as the black and white worlds viewed on cinema screens. Her clothes were dark, too, and the plainest she'd brought with her for a short stay with Aunt Rosamund; some of the mourning garments in the wardrobe back home might have been more suitable for this sort of outing.

"I hope I'm suitably inconspicuous?" she asked, noting a pair of scrawny boys blinking at her from across the street, who might have fitted in with Fagin's gang. She clutched her handbag and regretted bringing it along, glancing back where the Renault had been parked; but it had already driven off to the end of the street.

"Well, sometimes, I wish I could get out of this damn detective movie," Richard grumbled as a form of a greeting. "Before you say it, I know, wrong choice of occupation to start with…"

Without another word, he offered her his arm, not bothering to take his hand out of his trenchcoat pocket.

"Let's start, shall we?"

"Lead the way."

Mary tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Despite the unfamiliarity of their surroundings, she felt more at ease here, with Richard and his utter lack of gallantry and the musty clinging smell of his cigarette with his sure stride, than she had all morning at her aunt's house since the florist's delivery vans brought her suitors' offerings.

"Where are you taking me first?" she asked as they stopped at a cross-street for a passing bicycle. "It had better meet my exceedingly low expectations. Remember, I gave up the Ritz and the Criterion for this."

"Well, it might be a disappointment to you because I'm afraid it's a bit clichéd. We're going to the Jade Palace." Richard motioned to a façade down the street, one of the few which seemed to escape the general decay of the Limehouse district. "A place where gentlemen seek for gracious and exotic company, without fearing any regrettable consequences or any uncontrollable rumors. In the first case, they're perfectly right, since Lady Sun-Yi is very strict with prophylactic means, and in the second case, I'm afraid they're quite mistaken." He grinned wolfishly before turning left to a rather sinister back alley.

He loved back alleys. In their shadows resided the true power of information. One could discover the mechanism of a gigantic machine like London, if they knew where to watch. In their shadows, one could find the freedom to act and open a back door, if they were ready to play with the rules.

"I see," Mary replied, heat prickling across her cheekbones; she felt Richard's gaze on her, and hoped he attributed her flush to the cold and not to embarrassment.

The shadows lengthened as they turned down the alley, further out of the reach of the wan sun which failed to break through the clouds, and Mary found herself tightening her grip on Richard's arm, pressing closer against his side. She could only imagine what her mother and aunt would say to _her _setting foot in the Jade Palace. Of course they might be more alarmed about with whom-even though, ironically, he was the person most capable of keeping that secret.

"I'm sure I'd be shocked by some of the people you know to frequent such establishments."

Had _he _ever?

Blush deepening, she hastened to add, "How likely is it that we'll find Mr Inzaghi here?"

"If we're lucky, he decided to mend his broken heart with women and booze, and the Jade Palace would be his number one choice," he replied, checking his wristwatch - one of the few outlandish gifts his ex-wife offered him in the first months of their marriage. Since the gift had been made with his own money, and he liked the watch, he had decided to keep it, as a reminder of his foolishness. "We'll know very soon."

As if on cue, a back door opened to reveal a gracious silhouette clad in a dark red exotic dress. Lady Sun-Yi, or Madeleine Johnson for the few people pertaining to her inner circle, could put a Swiss clock to shame. Waiting for her, a boy, not older than twelve or thirteen, sat on the stairs, waiting for his order. Twice a day, before noon and before dinner, Madeleine would relay her clients' demands to Old Chan, a courtesy to the gentlemen who did not want to be seen in an opium joint.

Richard waited for the end of the transaction, motioning Mary to remain silent, before greeting his informant.

"Hello, Maddie."

What he had not anticipated was the frozen expression on her face.

"Richard, what are you doing here? Do I have to remind you we have an agreement?"

Mary tried not to gawk at the woman the instant she stepped out of the door, her luxurious silk gown incongruous with the back alley scene. She battled an unladylike smirk, as well-it _would _be a woman in red, wouldn't it?

The lady-if indeed the term applied at all-was not nearly so shocking, though, as Richard's address. _Maddie_? And they had an agreement? Dropping his arm, she looked up at him in expectation.

Richard frowned at Madeleine's unexpected hostility.

_What now?_

"I know, I know," he answered, raising his hands in an appeasing gesture. "No surprise visits, you never know who I could stumble upon. I don't want to ruin your business since it's mine as well."

"What do you want?" Madeleine shot back, though her suspicious gaze was on Mary.

"Nothing concerning whatever big name you're entertaining at the moment, I assure you. Is Pete here?"

The narrowed eyes, heavily lined in kohl, flickered briefly to Richard. "Pete?" she asked, distractedly, looking back at Mary. "No, I haven't seen him in ages. I thought he had a girlfriend?"

"Apparently not any more," Mary answered, tired of being a mere spectator.

"I wish he were here, for cheering up" replied Lady Sun-Yi, or Maddie, whatever her real name was. "I'm glad _you _are not alone on Valentine's Day, Richard."

He had to stifle a groan. Of course, she had to comment on Mary's presence. Well, if she wanted to start yet another war, he would oblige her, gladly.

"She's there to stop me from breaking the Yank's teeth when I get my hands on him. And please do drop the China doll act, Miss Johnson, it's an insult to your intelligence," he hissed between clenched teeth, towering above her, hands firmly back in his trenchcoat pockets.

From deep in Mary's memory came the image of Granny and Aunt Rosamund's hushed yet fascinated tones across the tea table, discussing how Richard had "manhandled" Lavinia. If only they could see him now, imperious in a dark alley with a woman of the evening who apparently supplied him with far juicier secrets than the Marconi scandal. But _Miss Johnson _was not easily cowed.

With a roll of her eyes, she said, "Pete's not here. Is there anything else you want to know, or may I get back to the _big name _I'm entertaining, while you look for Pete so your lady friend can stop you from punching him?"

"That is all, thank you," Mary said, taking Richard's arm once again and giving it a little tug in the direction they'd come.

Richard could feel her intent - and appreciated that she took her role in this debacle seriously - but he wasn't done yet. There was no reason he would be the only one having a nightmarish day.

"Maddie?" he called after her before she got the chance to go back inside. "If your big client is a man with carefully combed hair, a spectacular mustache, a paunch and a Welsh accent, please give him my regards. I promise I won't publish anything, but make him sweat."

The displeased frown that formed on her face as he finished his description was the perfect giveaway.

"And for your troubles, three tickets to Paris in April, and the best seats to see France vs England, for your father and your nephews… Good day."

Neither Mary nor Richard spoke as they made their way back up the alley in the direction from which they'd come. Almost as soon as they stepped out of the shadows, however, Mary said, "That was neatly done. But there's one loose end you forgot to tie up."

Richard had been scanning up and down the next block of the neighborhood from beneath the brim of his hat, considering where to continue the search for his wayward caricaturist, but he glanced down at her in question.

She raised a brow at him. "Are you going to give _me _a Parisian holiday not to reveal who spent Valentine's Day at the Jade Palace?"

"Come on, Mary, you wouldn't want to destroy the reputation of Mr. Blake's boss, would you?"


	2. Chapter 2

As promised, here's the second part of _Not without a fight_. Mary and Richard take a little break from hunting for a wayward yank and have an overdue conversation.

Enjoy!

**Chapter Two**

For the fourth time that morning, Richard's efforts remained fruitless, as he pressed the gorilla-like guard at the entrance of a semi-clandestine casino - the kind that was tolerated by the police as long as not it did not cause too much trouble - to confirm that, indeed, _Yankee Pete_, as he was nicknamed in the area, was nowhere to be seen, and especially not in this building. From inside, the excited shouts, the enraged swearwords and the triumphant exclamations covered the barks and cries of agony, casting a veil of hypocrisy of the dog fights that had made building famous.

As long the peelers only heard human voices and not dog barks during their patrols, the institution would live on, in a model of conciliation to preserve some social peace.

Defeated, and anxious to get out of the street as soon as possible - even if he tried not let it appear in his demeanour, he was as ill-at-ease as Mary, if her a pale face and pinched lips were any indication - Richard gave the customary bills to the bouncer for his troubles and took his companion's arm, leading her back to Commercial Road, far from the back alleys in which they had spent most of the morning.

"I'm starving, and you look like you could do with sitting down for a bit. I know a good restaurant nearby."

Mary nodded. Her feet ached from walking up and down the cobbled and poorly paved or even unpaved streets for the past several hours.

"I could do with tea," she said. On second thought, recalling the sounds and smells and sights that had assaulted her senses at their last stop, she amended, "Or something rather stronger."

She knew this part of town could not possibly contain the sort of restaurant to please Richard's expensive tastes, but she took a degree of comfort from knowing there was actually a place here that he deemed _good_. When she saw a shabby but otherwise respectable and perfectly English pub on the corner, she nevertheless relaxed her fingers in the crook of his arm as relief washed over her.

Not only did Richard know the pub, inside he was acquainted with the staff, too; on their way through the establishment, the publican asked if he'd forgotten what day it was, or if he always wined and dined the ladies so extravagantly? Richard was not so amused by this as the barkeep himself, wearing much the same expression he'd worn at the Jade Palace as they seated themselves at a corner table.

Off her feet, with a little food in her stomach-filling, if not exactly satisfying, the chicken having been roasted within an inch of its life-and sipping a glass of not terrible wine, Mary's spirits were soon restored enough to voice a thought which had been on her mind since their second destination.

"While I'm certainly glad you know your way around Limehouse, I must wonder how often you're forced to do this sort of thing."

"Too often to my taste…" Richard sighed as he cut energetically into his steak. "I've met Pete before the war and brought him to London. Back in America, nobody wanted to employ him, and I jumped on the occasion. It was too good to be true, truly. Such a genius, and nobody wanted him, on the East Coast, on the West Coast, even in bloody Montana."

He interrupted the reminiscences long enough to take a bite, and struggle with the far too well-cooked meat. A long gulp of cider helped with that.

"Long story short, I soon realized why the Baton-Rouge lads I've stolen him from literally rubbed their hands when Pete gave in his resignation."

Another bite, another struggle, another gulp. Fortunately, the cider was as he remembered it, like the potatoes, that it is to say excellent.

"I suppose it escaped your attention I had to do this _sort of thing_ once during our engagement. In the summer of of 1919 to be more exact. You know, when I had to decline your Aunt's invitation and all of you decided that I was definitely unsuitable if I did not know how hierarchize my priorities."

"If you mean Susan Flintshire, she's my father's cousin, not my aunt," Mary replied with an arch of her doubt he thought her high and mighty-and she couldn't deny part of her meant to be-but he wasn't exactly being fair with his chastisement, either.

So far, since she called him about Green's suspicious death last summer, they had avoided discussion of their own past relationship. That they were both the victims of more recent marital griefs, and both faced with the unexpected burden of parenting alone, had made them more sympathetic to each other-or, more cynically, placed them on a level playing field. Still, given their tempestuous engagement, she supposed it was inevitable that their past would surface again at some point. Mary couldn't deny that today's view of Richard's world-his "tough world" as she once described it to Granny without ever having glimpsed anything like she'd witnessed today in the Limehouse district-had turned her thoughts to certain chapters of their story she had never given proper consideration.

She speared a potato with her fork, though she did not lift it from her plate, as she went back to the summer to which he referred in her mind. Their wedding had been put off-_again_-out of respect to Lavinia, yet somehow this had not stopped Cousin Susan from inviting the family, including Richard, for their first summer at Duneagle since 1914. He, of course, had remarked on the hypocrisy of this, which had vaguely irritated her, a feeling which heightened to being incensed when Susan in turn remarked on his lack of breeding. To his face, Mary accused him of working too much; in her heart, she resented him for abandoning her when he'd been so supportive in the wake of Matthew's rejection.

Worse, she'd resented him for not being Matthew. For of course Matthew would never do anything as rude as turn down a holiday invitation.

"As a matter of fact," she said, in a more subdued tone, "I wasn't thinking of Mr. Inzaghi at all. I wondered...Are these the sort of people and places you dealt with to keep the Bates trial out of the papers?"

Clearly, from the arching of his eyebrows, he had not expected this at all. She laid down her fork, and twisted her hands together in her lap as she added, "To keep my secret?"

At that, her gaze dropped, too, even as she reached for her wine.

Richard had been on the verge of uttering a snarky reply about the particular rules the Crawleys used on the concept of family, pulling the "closely related card" when it suited them, then "loosely related card" when the first one was not convenient anymore, when Mary surprised him by bringing up a topic he thought dead and buried, for good.

_With threats, bribes, calling in favours, yes I stopped it._

He shook his head sadly, unable to believe after all this time the naivety of these self-important people

_What did she imagine? What did the Crawleys imagine? _

"I did what I had to do, that's the job. The late Vera Bates was too obsessed by her desire for vengeance to clearly see the proper damage she could inflict, which was good," he explained patiently, paradoxically glad they could have this conversation at last. Of course, it was a good four years too late, but it did not matter really. "As for Bates himself it was a bit trickier, but nothing is impossible when one of your old schoolmates is a high-up in Scotland Yard."

The steak had more in common with the sole of an old shoe than with proper meat, he decided, giving up his useless struggle when his fork almost bent double as he tried to cut off another bite.

In spite of the grim conversation, Mary found herself smiling a little at Richard's battle with his steak. It must have been truly dreadful for him to give up on it.

Growing serious, again, she took another drink and said, "We never thanked you properly for any of it." Only a shouted mention of gratitude in the midst of their final quarrell. Nothing after Matthew attacked him. "And certainly not for not publishing."

Though it had occurred to her since she learned he had a son that he'd had new drama to deal with close after their engagement came to an end, to preoccupy him for that which had filled the past three years. Still, she wondered...

"Did you ever really mean to?"

_The long awaited question. The one that never came when it should have…_

"Honestly, Mary, do you really think I would have reached my current status if my blackmail schemings had been ones that could be easily defeated by just a negative answer, a pathetic brawl and a pair of furrowed, angry brows?"

Mary closed her eyes. _I really loved you. More than you knew. _

"You wouldn't have. I should have known better."

"And I should have been a bit more rational," Richard admitted before finishing off the mashed potatoes. Contrary to the steak, they were to die for, with a rather unhealthy amount of butter and cream, an honest fare for the dock workers who frequented the place.

Pensively, he leaned against his chair and lit a cigarette.

"Maybe it's time we have this conversation, now that I'm clear headed," he began, scratching his beard.

Mary could only nod in encouragement. It was high time they had this conversation, even if it was too late to change anything.

"As far as I remember our past conversations," he went on, "I can only think of one occurrence in which you could have been justified to think I was blackmailing you in anything when I brought Lavinia back."

That had been his lowest moment, the one thing he wished he could make up for. He had been absolutely despicable that evening.

"Yes," Mary said, "you saying I'd given you the power to destroy me rather left that impression."

The tremble she'd somehow managed to keep out of her voice shuddered down her spine as she sat rigid at the table. Even now she did not like to think of that night, the edge of the moulding pressed into her back and Richard looming over her, making her feel as trapped as she had since Pamuk's dead weight pinned her to the bed.

"I'd spent half a day stuck in a car with the dear girl," said Richard, "forced to hear about her doubts and uncertainties. I was tired to the bones, and let's not forget very frustrated… To your family, it was perfectly acceptable for you to spend time with your cousin, while to me, you were spending time with the man they all wanted you to marry, who _you_ wanted to marry even if he did not at the time."

He had to control himself not to hiss the last words.

"In other words, I don't take well to being jerked around, I never have, for as long as I can remember, especially when I'm tired… Moreover, I'm usually a rational man, most of the time. Some might even say I'm too much of a cynic." He was rambling now. "Let's say you can brag about being the only person who had been able to make me lose my perspective. Anyway, I suppose I never apologized for this…"

For a second, Richard's stare remained fixed on the burning end of his cigarette.

"What about when I told you about Pamuk? When you said I was entitled to be in your debt?"

"I'm afraid we misunderstood each other deeply, which maybe led you to believe I was blackmailing you," he replied without hesitation. "Frankly, I only meant that you didn't need to pay for anything…" Five years later, the notion of Mary wanting to pay him for his help still burnt a little. "I helped you because we were engaged, just like that. There aren't many people who can walk into my office, or ask me on the phone to look for a wayward valet or cover a scandal, you know…"

How on earth had not she realized the place she occupied in his life then? Had she been voluntarily blind, obsessed as she was with her cousin? Had she been so used to asking and being obeyed that she never thought of the implications of his own will to help her?

Richard raised his cigarette in a silencing gesture. He did not need much time now.

"And I suppose you believed my threats after you broke off the engagement?"

Mary nodded.

"How was I supposed to react? You just announced you were breaking off the engagement. "

_If you go, I'll burn your precious bookshelves down!_

_If you go, I'll kill myself!_

_If you go, I'll my brother, you'll never walk again!_

_If you go, I'll go to the police and tell them about your little arrangement with your friend in the force!_

How many times over the years had he been on the receiving of such ridiculous threats? He never had understood the raw despair behind the senseless words, until he had been the one uttering them, one night of January 1920.

"You should know better than anybody, rejection is quite the bitter pill, isn't it?"

The cigarette had burned out. He crushed it into the ashtray, and lit another, feeling strangely relieved.

Mary felt ill; a glance down at the darkened bits of chicken skin she'd eaten around reminded her it was not due to anything she'd eaten, though that might have been a preferable alternative to looking reality in the face and confronting, at long last, what a fool she'd been-again.

"But don't you see?" shesaid, her voice more pinched, less steady, than she would have liked. "That's exactly why I didn't accept Matthew in the first place. I couldn't marry him dishonestly, but if he knew the truth I was sure he would reject me."

She looked down again at her hands in her lap, as she had that day in Richard's office.

_I could never despise you...You don't need my forgiveness because there is nothing to forgive. _

Matthew's words emboldened her to go on. To brave the storm-which was mainly inside her-and at last say what should have been said, four years ago.

"Richard, you know the value placed on women like me entering marriage with our virtue in tact. Even _you _expected it of me-I saw your face when I told you. It may not have been a deal-breaker, but even you couldn't conceal your disappointment."

His cigarette smoke swirled across the table toward her. Why should he be disappointed, if he felt nothing?

"And then you talked about what our marriage would mean to you socially...the noble blood your children would carry...Of course I offered to repay you. Every bit of it sounded like a transaction. A series of services rendered and payments received."

Looking up at him, the tendrils of smoke still hovered faintly in the space between them like the threads of a spider's web. She could see etched plainly on the lines of his face how abhorrent the idea was to him. Though she regretted hurting him again with her lack of understanding, the relief she felt to at last give voice to all these things was undeniable.

"For what it's worth," she went on with a sigh, "it wasn't only you. From the moment I asked Mama to help me move Kemal Pamuk's body from my bed, she made it abundantly clear how indebted I would be to any man who would marry me under the circumstances."

"And, again, how was I supposed to react? With misty eyes and quivering lips? Or with the stiff-upper lip like your lot ?" he exclaimed, more forcefully than he would have expected. Most of the old wounds had healed, but some were still a bit itchy, it seemed. "Come on Mary, you'd just confirmed my worst suspicions, that I was barely a spare wheel, in more than one sense!"

Another cigarette butt crushed in the ashtray.

"Rambling self-important idiocy was the only way I had left to keep my own dignity intact and not start to question your motives on our first encounter at Cliveden. Did you let me approach you because you was interested in me or in my assets? Why did you invite me to Downton at all, given how clear I had been on my intentions during your last visit to London?"

No cider left, nothing to alleviate the sudden dryness in this throat.

"And do you really believe I was talking of my opinion on the matter of noble blood and other things? For goodness' sake, Mary, I was talking of your _peers_, of your family, the ones I would have had to endure for the duration of your marriage, the ones who wouldn't have missed a chance to repeat again and again how you were too good for me!"

Richard lit another cigarette, which did nothing for his throat, but the process of lighting it gave something to do to his now restless hands.

"Were you present when I said your confession made me glad because it put us on equal stand or was the woman in red a stand-in for you? How clearer could have been? Wasn't the simple use of the expression _equal_ enough to convey the meaning I didn't give a fig about your pseudo scandal?"

Richard motioned the bartender for another pint of cider. He would need the refreshment before resuming the hunt for the wayward Yank.

"What enraged me though was the realization that you would never have confided in me on this topic, and probably many others, had Vera Bates never tried to get back at her husband."

Having finished her wine, Mary requested a cider, too. She looked at Richard sadly across the table until the barmaid had brought the pints and gone away again. There was nothing she could say to that in her own defence, or her family's. She was guilty as charged-of the last accusation, at least-shameful as it was.

She wrapped her fingers around her mug, drawing it to the edge of the table, but did not raise it to drink.

Not till she'd boarded the train to London that day when she had no choice but to tell him her _filthy scandal _had she given any thought to why it never occurred to her to do so before then, when it had seemed so imperative that she only accept Matthew with no secrets between them. Of Matthew's virtue there had been no question-_I'm Tess of the D'ubervilles and you're Angel Clare!_-and she believed him deserving of nothing less from the woman he married, or at least the opportunity to make an informed decision about whether he could go through with marriage to a fallen woman. She supposed, then, that her equal certainty that Richard was governed by a looser set of morals, made him a suitable mate for such as she. Richard was not the only one who'd thought of them as equals.

The irony and the cider burned as she swallowed.

"I had no idea you loved me," she said, hoarsely. "And I loved Matthew."

His had been the only love she wanted, the only person she cared to deem her worthy.

"What was it Lavinia said to you? If we could have just admitted it…"

At first, Richard did not quite understand what she was alluding to. Why on earth did she invite Lavinia in this conversation?

_I wish I could do the noble thing and step aside. __Honestly._

The girl's plaintive intonation came back to his memory, as grating now as it was before.

_But I can't, sir Richard. I can't, I love him too much._

Now he remembered perfectly. Mary and he had had a huge fight about Christmas festivities - she had refused to travel north with him to visit his family and get to know them properly, preferring to stay at Downton, with her family, who had suffered so much during the war. On his way back to London in the first week of January, he had stopped by Downton, keen to make amends, an invitation to the Spanish Ambassador haras in his pocket. He hated horses and everything that surrounded them with a passion, but an _aficionada_ like Mary should enjoy the attention. Naturally, the invitation had been considered outlandish, coming too soon after the end of the war.

Naturally, following Crawley's progress was so much more important.

Lavinia had spent Christmas at Downton, as her status as fiancée of the future heir supposed, along with her father. However, this confirmation of her new position in the family had done little to raise her spirits. Jonathan Swire had traveled back to London after Boxing Day - he had work to do, apparently, and Lavinia had stayed by her fiancé's side, her constant devotion always praised in words, but less and less in deeds.

_Sorry, Lavinia, but I'm not as dignified as you are. I just want Mary's happiness, and I sincerely don't think she can achieve that with such a selfish brat as Captain Crawley. But I digress, and you're right, a little honesty would be good for everybody. You have to recognize it isn't this family's forte, though._

With that he had drained his champagne in one gulp, ignoring Carson's disapproving glare, and invited Mary to dance to the American tunes Cora's phonograph played in the drawing room where the family was gathered after diner and prepared for the upcoming Servants' Ball. He even remembered noting Crawley's frown of hurt and displeasure as they danced away, joining the Earl and his wife not without a small amount of petty satisfaction. For a second he almost felt sorry for the poor girl who had walked back to now very bored fiancé.

What a shame. What a waste of time.

"That a little honesty and determination on your part would have been a good everything for all parties involved," he replied, chasing away the memories. "Honestly, Mary, I know your world doesn't operate by the same standards as mine, but I find that your and Crawley's hypocrisy and cowardice far more damaging, as far as what it tells about your character, than whatever happened with Pamuk, which obviously wasn't your fault."

He drained the end of his pint like he had drained his glass of champagne back then.

"You two wanted so much to be the hero and heroine of your damn tragic fairytale that you forgot that there were real people around you, who suffered, who suffocated from the flu knowing their future husband didn't love them back, who watched you letting yourself get hurt again and again, utterly powerless. You persuaded yourselves that you could kill someone with an illicit kiss, and you forgot how lucky you've been, especially you."

"Well, it would appear my luck's run out at last, wouldn't it?" she replied, her words as stiff as her spine and shoulders as she straightened in her chair, placing her cup on the table. "Though I'm not sure I would ever have described my life as lucky in any regard. Not since 1912."

Patrick drowned on the _Titanic_, Pamuk dead in her bed, Matthew…

"Always focusing on the half empty glass, aren't you?"

Richard could not help but chuckle at Mary's sense of dramatics. Of course, he would never admit it aloud, but he had liked this special flaw of hers, because it used to make him curious. How such an apparently well-grounded and strong woman could be so naive and blind to everything that was not her inner circle?

"Let's see… Not catching the flu yourself while you did exactly everything that was particularly ill-advised in time of an epidemics," he began to count on his fingers, mimicking the attitude of a schoolboy.

"Your mother getting better after all, when the whole family was at Lavinia's side-or was it at Matthew's? Do I have to remind you that only O'Brien was with her for most of the night, when you were busy consoling your cousin? Speaking of that… Without this footman's sacrifice, the use of his legs would have been the least of Captain Crawley's problems. Somehow, I doubt that a simple soldier, not raised under the Grantham's influence, would have done the same as this young man. What was his name again ? Even without this footman, don't you see that many women who _missed their chance_ before the war hadn't been granted a second chance? Your desire of suitors might blind you to that fact, but far too many men died without even firing their first shot at the enemy, whoever this enemy was. Your cousin, your husband, was one of the lucky ones, even in his chair…"

As if to soften the blow, Richard let a small smile form on his lips and his hand covered Mary's fingers which were tightened around her pint. Long ago, such a gesture would have taken his breath away. Now, he did feel very different from when he comforted his sister or cousins when they suddenly thought of their lost ones.

_An itchy scar is still a healed wound._

"Of course, you went through terrible, terrible times these past two years. However, you won't be able to be happy again if you keep on doing this, Mary. You have to count your blessings, because, if not, you'll never even be content. Naturally, at some point or another, you'll feel like drunk in your own happiness, but it'll be an illusion. It won't be the real deal."

Richard stood up and put his trenchcoat on. It was high time to search for his friend again.

"If only Pete understood this simple fact, I wouldn't have to do this sort of things so often."

Over the course of their discussion, Mary had all but forgotten Richard's errant caricaturist. It hit her suddenly, the irony that helping Richard track down a man who'd been betrayed by a lover was her chosen diversion from a Valentine's Day debacle with her suitors. Quickly she stood, hoping Richard was not aware of this, as it would no doubt only fuel his opinion of her as being spoiled and self-centered.

Yet as he plucked her coat from the rack and held it for her, she had no impression that he was thinking anything of the sort. He'd lectured her, yes, but without malice. His touch on her hand had been gentle, reassuring, even, as was the brush of his fingertips as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat and he adjusted it on her shoulders. This was the Richard she'd glimpsed after Lavinia's funeral. How had she been so blind to his feelings?

She turned her head to look back slightly over her shoulder at him. "Are you content, Richard?"

He'd been hurt terribly, too, over the last two years. The wisdom he offered was gleaned from his own experience.

"Yes, I am," he answered without hesitation as he pushed the door open, bracing himself for the February humidity and cold, the kind of one which chilled you to do bones and made you question the rationality of a day spent outside instead of sitting by a roaring fire. "Why shouldn't I be ? I've a beautiful son, I'm financially secure enough to ensure that he won't lack of anything and will be able to build his life as he wishes - as long he doesn't turn into another of those lazy heirs who dilapid their fathers' hard-won money. My father seems indestructible for now. I've been successful doing what I liked, the way I liked, and my efforts have been rewarded by current social position. I can hope to regain my footing on a professional level in a very near future, if I ever lost it. Again, what more can I ask?"

He casually offered his arm to Mary and steered her toward their next destination.

"Of course, everything's not perfect, but life isn't perfect either. I'm not even discarding the idea of getting back on the saddle at one point of my life, it's just that I'm perfectly content with being off the market at the moment. I've my son, my family, my friends, crazy as they are, it's more than enough."

"If we were still at the pub, I'd drink to being off the market." When Richard looked down at her from beneath a quirked eyebrow, she amended with a shake of her head, "For today."

Tony and Charles were lovely, both, but while she did like the promise that romance was not forever lost to her, what she wanted at the moment was friendship with no expectation. She'd found that, most surprisingly, in Richard. And he was right. Her family had withstood devastating losses, but how many families had weathered the war and the Spanish flu? How many people her age still had both parents, much less grandparents? She had her son-and Downton. What right had she to ask for more? It was already more than she deserved.

"You know what might help me be a little more content?" She squeezed Richard's arm, and he looked down at her again. "Knowing where we're going before we get there."


	3. Chapter 3

So here's the last installment of this short fic. We hope you enjoyed it!

**Chapter Three**

_There_ had been another fruitless stop, at Old Chan's newest opium joint behind Bekesbourne Street, a kind of place in which Richard always felt quite ill-at-ease. Of course, Old Chan was a precious informant, one of his most precious. Over the course of the years, the man had been Richard's ears in the dark streets of London and he had provided the publisher with more than a few terrible secrets, giving him a considerable leverage.

However, with these informations came a very high price. Over the years, Richard had helped the devious Chinese to escape from the clutches of Scotland yard, providing him with valuable governmental information about British policy about opium in India and China.

Most of the time, apart from the occasional sleepless night during which some his strategical choices came back to haunt him, Richard managed to live with his cynicism and look at himself in the mirror with little problem. However, noticing the languid, almost lifeless bodies lying down on low beds, a pipe carefully placed at the bedside, the empty eyes that stared at him indifferently before resuming their opium-induced dream as he questioned the owner of the place about Pete's possible whereabouts.

"Yes, he was in one of my places," Old Chan replied in his usual polite and careful tone. Of course he would not specify where.

He was a man of few words and great patience, which had helped him to ascend the steps on his organization, to the point of becoming some sort of ambassador in Europe. That had been before the Triads put an end to the Qin empire and Sun Yat-Sen became the first president of the Chinese Republic. Old Chan could have become an honest and honorable politician, if such a creature ever existed, but the old man's skin did not agree with the light of day.

"Unfortunately, he left when he heard that you and your friend were looking for him. Naturally, I had him followed…"

"But?" Richard prompted. He had no patience left for this kind of game.

In a dark corner, two of Chan's men evacuated a man who had forgotten that the owner of the place never gave credit terms. Deaf to the pleading, the men pulled him along a corridor leading to the back entrance. Richard felt his shoulders' tense unconsciously. It was at times like these he felt he treaded a very blurred line in his dealings with the Chinese. The man caught his esteemed clients in his nets, then played with them as he wished, as very few would find the strength to escape from the trap.

More than once, Pete had escaped from the man fate - some vicious and very dissuasive beating for the first time, broken hand for the second time - thanks to his boss' connection to the owner. However, at some point, Richard had wondered if letting the wayward Yank have a taste of Old Chan's special treatment of the clients who forgot to pay him would not teach him a valuable lesson.

"I'm afraid that he went to a place out of my reach."

_Just my luck._

"Thank you."

Not able to stand the muffled cries that came out from the opened back door anymore - the client was surely a second time offender by the sound of it - Richard took his companion's hand and lead her out of the damn place.

"Let's go back to the park. Keith is waiting for us."

Mary clung to Richard's hand, her heart beating in time to the quick staccato of his footsteps. Though she could not get out of the opium den quickly enough, having felt for the first time since joining Richard in this part of town that she was really in danger, her skin crawling beneath the undisguised lascivious stares of the man and his _employees_, she panted, "But what about Pete? Are you really going to give up searching for him? Knowing he's been in a place like _this_?"

"I'm not giving up, just switching tactics."

She didn't bother to ask what that change of tactics might be, breathless from keeping up with his long brisk strides in her heels-why hadn't she worn more sensible shoes?-and knowing by the set of his brow and jaw that he was formulating his plan at this very moment. All would be revealed in due course.

York Square Garden, despite being rather unkept as far as London parks were concerned, and surrounded by shabby rowhouses, was a welcome sight to Mary. The same could not be said for the sight of her to the stout man who watched their approach from one of the weathered benches over a newspaper. He folded it deliberately, his lips forming a line as sharp as the crease he folded in the paper between his thumb and forefinger. Richard had told her about Keith MacDonald, the steadiest of his circle of colleagues and friends, and also the harshest judge of both their past relationship and renewed acquaintance, and it was clear as he stood to greet them that he knew at once who she was.

"Mr. MacDonald. We meet at last."

Though she wasn't really surprised that he did not immediately shake her proffered hand, she was nevertheless offended that he eyed it from beneath heavy lids. At least his balefulness was not reserved solely for her.

"What's _she _doing here?" he addressed Richard in a monotone which seemed to come from the back of his throat.

"Don't start, Keith, please," Richard shot back between gritted teeth, more than ready to put out a fight, more to just relieve the tension that he had felt building all day long. He forced himself to unclench his fists buried in his trenchcoat pockets than to defend Mary from his suspicious friend's inquiry.

A strong hand came to his shoulder, accompanied with the typical floating smell of tobacco pipe.

"Come on boys, play gently, will you?"

Richard's shoulder ached a little under the restraining grip.

"Don't you always say that it's in difficult times that you can recognize your true friend? People can change, you know. If not, it would a sad, sad world." Years of living in London had never polished his brogue.

For a copper, Philip was a strange creature, always keen on giving a second chance. Maybe that was why he had managed to raise so high. Few people were able to see beyond the appearances like him.

Few were able to walk a very fine line in order to get the job done.

"Lady Mary, it's a pleasure to meet you at last, in person. Of course, I would have preferred to meet you in a white dress some years ago, but life is life, isn't it?"

Few people could insult their interlocutor and get away with it with a charming smile and a firm handshake.

The backhanded compliment made Mary arch an eyebrow, but she shook hands with the red-haired and bearded Chief Superintendent Philip Mortimer of Scotland Yard, another of Richard's longstanding friends. He certainly was well connected at all levels of society, wasn't he? Mortimer had diffused the tension between Richard and Keith deftly, and he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"It is, indeed," she replied. "And right now it seems Mr. Inzaghi's life requires our attention?"

Richard shot her a brief look of gratitude before he squared his shoulders and relayed his plan.

* * *

For the second time that day, Mary found herself walking to the Jade Palace. This time, however, it was not Richard who strode alongside her, but Keith, who didn't offer her an arm to guide her down the street. Instead, he kept one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other held his pipe as he puffed away.

Displeased as she was with this arrangement-both her destination and the person who was taking her there-she equally had Keith to thank for it. If Richard had his way, she would have been back in Aunt Rosamund's Renault, headed back to Eton Square and far away from the danger he faced at the Pharoah, a casino which, prior to the last half-hour, she'd never known existed. Keith pointed out, in the droning tone which somehow did not fail to convey how deeply disgruntled _he _was, that they didn't have time to search for a telephone, much less wait until the chauffeur arrived to collect her.

"Just what are you doing here, anyway?" Keith asked, his voice startling Mary after some minutes of silence except for the scuff of their shoes on the pavement, which she'd fully expected him to maintain until they reached Miss Johnson's establishment.

_A man of few words_, Richard had described him to her in one of his letters, _but always precisely chosen ones_. So she took her time replying, though she wasn't sure if it was to choose her own words precisely, or to delay what he would follow them with.

"Avoiding Valentine's Day invitations."

"So you're using Richard again."

"I-" She caught herself stammering out an excuse, drew back her shoulders, and schooled her expression into one of neutrality. She would not be intimidated by another newspaper man. "He invited me."

"So he's being an idiot again. I had so hoped he wouldn't be as predictable as Pete."

"The Chief Superintendent's speech about people changing and deserving second chances obviously didn't make much of an impression on you."

A puff of a laugh rattled from his throat. "Oh, I suppose it's different this time around, is it? You're friends now?"

She gave a shrug to convey a lack of concern. "Mock it all you like, Mr. MacDonald, but our visits and letters the past eight months have been nothing but amiable."

"I've no doubt they have. Richard can be very amiable when he wants to be. That isn't the same as being _friends_." Keith pulled the pipe from his mouth, lips parting to exhale a ring of musky vanilla smelling smoke. "I suppose he's confided in you all about the Vronskis, then? And about how the very last thing he needs now that he's finally begun to regain what he lost to them is more Crawley family drama to drive him mad?"

Mary wanted to retort-there was no drama! And that very afternoon their search had been suspended for a good deal of confiding in each other-although, she supposed, an overdue talk about their own tumultuous relationship didn't exactly support her argument.

As she cast about for a reply, she noticed that the alleyway they were turning down was familiar. Lady Mary Crawley, familiar with Limehouse alleys, houses of ill repute, casinos, and opium dens. If that wasn't proof that people could change, then nothing was. But it was also as good an excuse as any to abandon the thread of their conversation, as Keith's green eyes fixed on the entrance of the Jade Palace, his mind clearly on Richard's more imminent problems.

If he hadn't greeted the woman who admitted them as Maddie, Mary wouldn't have recognised her as the woman she'd met earlier in the guise of Lady Sun-Yi. Her makeup toned down and the crimson silk gown exchanged for a more conservative blouse and skirt, there was little to distinguish the earl's daughter from the woman of the evening-or afternoon, as the case seemed to be for Lloyd George. The one familiar feature was the wary look which she regarded as her gaze fell on Mary for the second time that day. It quickly gave way to a look of worry as she recognised Keith.

"Has something happened to Richard?" she whispered.

"Not yet," Keith replied. "But something probably will, and if all goes to plan, he'll come here."

* * *

Richard blinked as he stepped into the _Pharaoh_, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the glaring lights of the casino. With a wordless tilt of the head, he declined the hostess' offer to take his coat and hat to the cloakroom.

"It'll be a quick visit," he explained to the puzzled young blonde who looked like a girl playing at being a woman, with her excessive make-up and revealing dress. Her puzzlement and her slight frown betrayed her young age even more. Whether she realized it or not, she was part of the big theater that was a casino, each employee playing a precise role in order to confuse the senses of the guests.

The more they would feel at ease, dumbed down by the easy access to alcohol and the reassuring company of _innocent_ hostesses, the longer they would stay and more money they would spend most unwisely.

While checking the movements of the guards behind his back, who would naturally be alarmed by a man not even tempted by a game of cards or roulette, Richard scanned the room for a familiar silhouette.

Fortunately for him, it was still an early hour and the casino was half empty. Only the most stubborn players would be inside a casino in the last hours of the afternoon, when normal employees barely begun to prepare for their commute home. However, the ambient noise was still deafening and made it difficult to focus. A tired jazz quartet slaughtered New Orleans tunes in the back of the room. Roulettes rolled around, croupiers shouted to raise the bids, fruit machines spun and occasionally spat a handful of resounding coins. Most of the clients moaned and cried in defeat, but a few of them shouted in triumph, encouraging the former to go on their madness.

In the middle of that organized chaos, Peter was busy losing the more than comfortable salary Richard gave him. Slouched over a craps table, he barely paid attention to the cards the croupier dealt him. On the table, an empty bottle of rum sat at his right hand, a ridiculously low pile of counters sat at his left hand. In front of him, the croupier barely hid his glee at having met such an easy customer.

"Come on Pete, let's pay and go," Richard put a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. The man reeked of alcohol and blinked at him with blurry eyes.

"Woah, Richie! Walking straight into the lion's den to save me! Such dedication!"

"How much does he owe?" Richard asked the croupier, ignoring his friend's nonsense, anxious to go as quickly as possible.

"Let me count, sir." The croupier's lack of enthusiasm reflected his sorrow at seeing a sucker go before he'd taken all his money. "Nine hundred and eighteen pounds, sir. _Plus_ the drinks."

Richard frowned. He only had half of the sum in cash, and he would burn in hell before writing down his name on an acknowledgement of debt in this establishment. It would go straight to Lord Rothmere's office. That meant he had to switch to plan B soon.

Three thugs walked to their table, their cheap tuxedos deformed by the coshes they hid under the coat.

_Charming._

"Are you sure?" he contested, more to buy time than really obtain something, as he stepped aside, to Pete's right. Long gone were the days when he could take on three thugs on his own. Two might be doable, especially with the knowledge that Morty waited for them in the back alley.

Richard scanned the room one last time. There were two more guards. One could not leave his post at the main door. The other one was left alone to watch the room.

Richard's decision was made.

With no warning, he grabbed the rum bottle, threw Pete to the ground unceremoniously, and flipped the scrap table over, making the counters flow. Then, he turned around and aimed at the first thug's head.

The bottle smashed, hard, and Richard used the broken piece to slash at the patellar tendon before hammering it into the man's right arm. Around them, the customers had left their seats, abandoning their vain hopes of beating the odds for a surer gain. The two remaining thugs made their move, taking the coshes out, but had to deal with the avid crowd before they could get their hands on Richard and his friend. In the back of the room, the quartet butchered _When the Saints go marchin' in_.

They were in the middle of bloody American movie, and a bad one.

Richard grope Pete's arm and made a run for it. After all, he mainly reached his current position as a prominent figure in Great Britain because he knew when to run, and because he was fast on his feet, even when dragging a rather uncooperative drunk man behind him.

* * *

Apart from its exotic and eclectic decor, East-meets-West in a mishmash of ornate traditional Oriental fabrics and finishes and clean-lined modern pieces, little about the parlor to which Madeleine Johnson showed Mary and Keith gave the impression of its being the ground floor of a brothel. The girl who brought them tea, with a pale powdered face and wearing a flowing silk print robe, was another story, but Keith paid more attention to the hands of his watch than to the girl's, which brushed against him more than was necessary to fill his teacup.

Reminder of the unsavory nature of her current environs or not, when the girl padded out of the parlor cat-like on her stocking feet, Mary felt abandoned with Keith and his increasingly furrowed brow and the steady, unstopping _tick _of minutes on his watch.

_A quick job. _Richard had described his plan. _Into the Pharaoh. Find Pete. Settle up. Out again. _

_You make it sound so simple. _Keith said, and Mary had not dared to ask why it mightn't be.

How could so much time seem to elapse between each second, while her heart beat double time in her breast? Her stomach fluttered, and she sipped her tea to settle it.

"You and Sir Richard go a long way back, don't you Mr. MacDonald?" she asked, to fill the silence. "You met in Glasgow?"

"Your ladyship will understand that I'm not in the mood to pretend it's teatime at Downton Abbey."

Mary lowered her teacup onto the saucer in her lap. "I know you're worried about them. But wasn't that the whole point of having Scotland Yard at the back door?" Keith had wanted to go with him, protesting Richard's argument that they couldn't risk _both _of them being seen at one of Rothermere's establishments. "Chief Superintendent Mortimer seems competent-"

The green eyes flickered up to her, flashing flecks of gold in the light of the Tiffany lamp on the table beside his chair.

Mary stopped short, and gulped her tea. Mortimer was probably not the best person to mention at the moment, as he'd silenced Keith by asking whether he was fighting fit these days.

But Keith's ire was all for her as he sat back in his chair, his hands curling around the low arms of his chair. "You thrive on drama, don't you, _Lady Mary_?"

"Mr. MacDonald, I hardly see how-"

"_I _see it, as plain as the nose on your face. There's a flush on your cheek and a glimmer in your eye. You're exhilarated by all of this. Taking tea at a brothel while Richard infiltrates a casino, why-how _could _you have sat through stale old Shakespeare or saccharine Irving Berlin?"

Mary's breath caught in her chest, and her thumbs twitched against the edges of her saucer. "You're worried about Richard, I know. You needn't take it out on me. Of course I'm concerned, too-"

Keith was on his feet with a startling fluidity. "You're damned right I'm worried about Richard." The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he approached Mary's chair. "You err in thinking I'm more worried about a couple of casino thugs roughing him up than how he'll come out of another round with _you_."

"Now who's being dramatic?" said Mary with a roll of her eyes. "If anyone thrives on drama, it's you-quite literally. You make your living publishing it."

"And as always, you demonstrate a fundamental disrespect for Richard's work," Keith said. "Do you have any idea what those bloody Russians took from him? All because you and your _noble _family played the loyal idiot for a fool."

* * *

Of course, things went south before long. The _Pharaoh_ was probably the only place in Limehouse district Richard was not familiar with, and he lost his way in the maze of the place twice. First they disturbed some bored accountants as they were totaling the takings for the day in a sinister room with no window. Then, they rushed headstrong into what probably was the owner's office. Fortunately, the fellow was busy elsewhere, most probably feeding Lord Rothmere with the latest rumors he had gathered in his establishment.

_Sir Richard, life is a game in which the player is made to appear ridiculous._

From nowhere, the Dowager's sententious voice rang in his ears as they made their clumsy way through the shabby kitchen, the remaining thugs on their heels. Pots were knocked over, plates thrown down, innocent cooks and busboys pushed to the ground before they reached the back door at last.

_Not my life._

Really, he should have thought twice before replying to the Dowager back then. Until this day, he had had the sinking feeling that this whole charade thing had been set up to ridicule him. On his good days, Richard managed to convince himself that it all had been no more than bad luck. On his bad days, and as he struggled against the resisting lock, he decided it was a very bad day; no bad luck could have made him mimic Kipling's _Man Who Would Be King_ in front of the Crawleys.

The thugs were on them, but thankfully, Pete had sobered up a little and pulled out a pitiful but most useful fight as Richard finally pushed the damn door open. However, it was a tad too late, and he could not dodge the first blow that landed on his right shoulder. He dragged Pete outside, barely seeing straight.

Broken clavicle, at least.

Both men stumbled down the flight of stairs leading to the back alley. One thug took on Pete, hitting him hard on the back while the others went after Richard. He dodged a first blow, then another before losing his footing. Fortunately, his opponent felt too assured of his advantage and rushed at him without thinking, which enabled Richard to stop him in his tracks with a well-adjusted kick to the groin. Now, if he could only get up on his feet… He braced himself for a blow that never came, instinctively closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, the two remaining toughs were on their knees, hands up in the air. The confused expressions on their faces revealed how little they expected to encounter uniforms in their back alley.

"So, lads, here's the thing," Philip announced between puffs from his pipe. "For years, I've been told that the _Pharaoh _was a respectable establishment. Don't resist, and don't give me the occasion I've been looking for for so long."

His pipe clenched between his teeth, Philip crouched to talk to the third man, who was still on the ground, curled up in pain.

"Let's leave it at that. No winner this time. You consider that you never saw these men. I consider I never witnessed you roughing them up. If a single word comes out, on the street, in the press, anywhere, my lads will show a great interest for your boss' dealings, and I'll make sure he knows why."

The Chief Super patted the man on the head.

"Understood?"

He straightened up and strode to Pete to assess the damage.

"Write down their names and address, and take their weapons. If they want them back, they know where they are."

Richard got up, clenching his shoulder. The distinct metallic smell of blood associated with the pain on the side of his face indicated he must have cut himself in his fall.

"How's Pete?" he asked before motioning to the uniforms. "You sure?"

"Yes, absolutely, don't worry," Philip replied as he helped a rather groggy Pete up. "Let's go. Can you walk on your own?"

"Yes, let's call it a day."

* * *

Commotion in the alley alerted Mary and Keith to the arrival of the wayward newspapermen, but she was nevertheless unprepared for them to blunder through the lacquered parlor door in quite the state they did. Bizarrely, as she leapt to her feet, the sight of Richard and Mortimer supporting a rather diminutive, very disheveled, and even more discombobulated man between them, made images flash in her mind of wounded soldiers limping or carried on stretchers through the front doors at Downton. The first time, queasiness had nearly overcome her, but she soon discovered it wasn't delicacy so much as dread that one of them might be Matthew.

Now, though she could see the elusive Pete Inzaghi was in a bad way, the stench of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke made her recoil-and rage when she heard the tautness of pain in Richard's voice as he barked orders, and saw that blood dripped down from his temple, staining his collar, and that he favored his right arm.

"Richard, you're hurt!" she exclaimed, going to him as he and the Chief dropped Pete unceremoniously onto a divan.

"Well well," drawled Pete, blinking up at her. "If it isn't the infamous Mary Crawley. Enchanted. What's she doing here, Richie?"

"I asked the same question myself," said Keith, darting to support Richard as he began to sway on his feet, guiding him over to the armchair he'd vacated.

"Your nursing reputation precedes you," Pete slurred, not waiting for an answer. "So nurse 'im!"

With a frown at the man who was the cause of all of this, Mary turned to take a tray of bandages and a bowl of water just brought in by the proprietress, and carried them to the chair where Richard clenched his teeth against a groan as Keith eased him out of his coat.

"What happened? Is anything broken?" Though that gash looked deep. "Has anyone sent for a doctor?"

"No need to attract more attention than necessary here." Richard uttered through clenched teeth. "Just need a pack of ice, and some disinfectant for the cut, and I'll be alright. How's Pete?"

Maddie had walked out and into the parlor, bringing some medical supply with her, bandages, disinfectant, ice. You can always count on her when in need, when an important figure was not paying a visit, naturally. Behind her, a girl still in exotic attire brought a bucket that she placed by the sofa, _just in case_.

"He'll live. Bruises, some cracked ribs, a bad hang-over when he wakes up.

Pete's feeble moans as their hostess examined him and senseless ramble seemed to confirm her assessment.

"Good, then I'll have no qualm in locking him into a room with no windows for the next six months, and make him work without a salary."

Richard had straightened up to take a look at this friend but had to settle back again as the room started to spin dangerously. Next to him, Mary was fussing in a way that made him quite uncomfortable, as the picture evoked some very frustrating moments of a long-gone past.

"Philip, you should take Mary home."

He barely heard his improvised nurse's protestations and the room stopped spinning as he blacked-out.

* * *

"He'll be all right, Lady Mary, I guarantee it," said Chief Mortimer as he opened the car door for Mary, back in Eton Square. "Blacking out from a broken collarbone doesn't mean he's in danger. Just that he's not invincible. And not as young as he once was," he added, blue eyes twinkling, "but don't tell him I said so. Richard's a fighter. Always has been. Always will be."

"Richard used to tell me that all the time." _You haven't had to fight for what you've got._ "It seemed so preposterous, while our boys were fighting a _war_. But after today, though...well, I've seen for myself exactly how hard he does fight."

And what-_and whom_-he fought for.

For all that, she suspected that what she knew of Richard's fight was scarcely the tip of the iceberg. What stories could Philip Mortimer tell her?

"I hope we'll meet again," she told him, and bid him good night.

When the hall boy swept open the front door, her nostrils were assaulted by the heavy fragrances of the bouquets-like being in a small room with too many women wearing too much perfume. During the day's excitement, she'd all but forgotten the damn flowers.

"Mary?" Aunt Rosamund's voice echoed in the foyer, accompanied by the click of heels as she came in from the dining room. "I phoned everyone! I was tempted to sent out Scotland Yard."

That certainly would have been ironic.

"Where in heaven's name have you been?"

Mary didn't answer immediately, pressing her lips together to squelch the smile that tugged at her lips as she envisioned Rosamund's face if she gave her an honest answer:_ Oh, only a dog fight in Limehouse. And a house of exotic entertainment._ With her fingertips, she touched the red quivering blossoms of the gladiolus. _Flower of the gladiators. _

"Escaping the shallow sentiments of Valentine's Day," she replied. "And being reminded of what it really means not to give up without a fight."


End file.
